Shadowland Creeps
by aradian nights
Summary: Tim Drake is sent to a pocket dimension, and must fight through the illusions cast by shadows. Based on the Shadow Mission game.


**shadowland creeps**

The air of desolation was emotionally and physically jarring. Everywhere he stepped, he felt the ground sink beneath his feet, and he could hear the soft sigh of a million million voices being released, soft cries piercing the air. He breathed in dust, and he exhaled shadow. It was all very disorienting, and it took him by surprise. The world was so strange, like a wavering canvas, dark and light and placid— and then it was _volatile_. Too much to handle and too little all at once. It was a different plane of existence. A scream in the night.

He fought through the shadowlands as best he could, but his communicator wasn't working. He tried to reach them— reach Nightwing— but all he could manage was a soft buzzing. Sometimes he'd hear a voice. A laugh. A bright, happy laugh, but it was always cut short, and he wasn't sure. Maybe he was imagining it. He had no idea how long he'd been in this realm of light and shadow, this endless storm of warp and dust and wisps.

It felt like hours. It felt listless all around, bright but foggy— and when he tried to examine his surroundings more thoroughly, those _things_ would appear. They were made of whispers. He could hear them in his head. They were disfigured, dark and jerky and reaching. Darting, black, sleek and rasping, a long torso and an erratic form. Robin was so out of his league. It was all trickery— magic wasn't his thing. He didn't know how to fight these things. He tried running at first, because they were sluggish for all their swiftness. But they caught him. They sprung from the ground, spindly, thick, sopping strands of darkness tangling around his ankles, wet and burning with the fire and ice of night and light and fear.

He found himself in a rut of panic and slop and phantom shadows. He jerked, and stabbed, frustrated and terrified. This wasn't his world, that was true, but it was all backwards, and the more he struggled the more appeared. They fed on his fear. They laughed at him! The twisted creatures that came from breath and dust and light! And he could do nothing but spin and smack and jump and stab. He thrust the butt of his staff through the chest of a beast, its head lolling back, and shadow burst from the wound like smoke. It leaked, hot and spurting, and Robin's mouth fell open in shock and disgust, and he jerked back, but _oh_— the darkness burned, acidic and thick, sliding against Robin's bare cheek. The staff was stuck, too, the length of it caught up inside the gushing hole inside the monster's convulsing chest. The more Robin pulled, the more the fiery darkness seemed to pour from it, fast and flowing freely, a plague of shadow and a burst of smoke.

"Come on," Robin hissed. He tugged, his feet sinking into the ground. Was the ground made of shadow too? Like the beast? Like the sky? Like the swirling, gnarling trees, and screaming mechanical bridges? Was any of this real? Could Robin even say that he was real? "Come on! Somebody, answer!"

"Tim…"

_No_, Robin thought, his body locking as the hair on the back of his neck shot up, gooseflesh prickling his entire body. _Not you_.

Horror stuck him like a dagger in the gut. It was poisoned, you see, the dagger of shadow, and it sucked up all his blood until Tim was utterly empty. He stood, his eyes glued to the face of the would-be shadow beast. The smoke and the light and the gushing darkness? It was gone. It's sleek head, dark and narrow, had morphed into a pale, weathered face, shocked and pained and pleading. Horror-stricken, just as Tim was.

"Tim… why…?" His father's face was gaunt, and fleck of red had splashed against the man's sunken cheeks. _The coma did that_, Tim remembered. It made him sick to look at this man— Tim's own dad, standing, alive— no, not alive, _no_— blood turning his pasty hospital gown dark at his shuddering breast. And Tim's own bo staff, sticking through his ribs. Tim could taste the blood, acrid and burning on his tongue. It tasted bitter, like dust, and it tasted bright and red and _dark_ and— and the shadow was creeping up his throat, leaving gouges where its long, slender claws dug deep into his gullet.

"No." Tim straightened. "You're not real. I know that. You're just one of Klarion's tricks."

His father looked at him with Tim's own eyes. They were so big and frightened and pained— but the sting of betrayal that shone there was what knocked Tim back.

"_Tim_," his father breathed. A sigh. A million million voices cried out with them, and his father burst before him in a shatter of dirt and swirl and blood and choking sobs.

Tim stood for a moment, the world settling again. His heart was pounding, berating against his chest, and he was overwhelmed. His father was dead. That was the truth of it. No sorcery could bring him back. Tim was no fool, and this— this land of shadows, of dust and mirrors? It was simple. It was all a trick.

"Klarion!" Tim shouted, spinning around and around and around in place, kicking up a spiral of dark tendrils which breathed into the air, stroking his cheek and pulling at his cape, snaking around his narrow waist. "Your monsters don't scare me! I'm not afraid of the dark, and I'm not afraid of the dead!"

A laughter sprung from the ground, and it rained from the monochrome sky, and it hit him like a gust of cool air, lashing at him and slicing through his heart. He doubled over, his bo staff slick with some beast's dark residue. It wasn't blood. It wasn't!

"I'm not doing anything!" an echoing voice rasped. Tim used his staff as a crutch, and he glared up, Klarion's pallid face nothing but an eyesore. He blended with the world nicely. After all, it was his creation, wasn't it? "Oh, _bird boy_. Don't you get it? You're doing this to yourself!"

"You're wrong." Tim pushed himself up straight, taking a deep breath. The air tasted sour. Like Death had walked where Tim now stood, and breathed the air Tim was heaving.

"Am I?" Klarion laughed, and he waved his hand. "Please! Without your little friends, you can't even think properly! Look at you! You're a mental case!"

Tim's fingers trembled against his bo staff. _It's not true_, he told himself. _I know they'll come for me. Dick will come for me— and Bruce_. "They'd never leave me," Tim breathed. "I know that, Klarion. And I'll fight you. I can do it— I know I can!"

"Well," Klarion sneered. "Whoopdie-doo. Buuut, I'd rather just watch you squirm a bit more!"

And then he disappeared. Just like that, the world became silent again, and never-ending wasteland of breathy murmurs that crept in the dark. Tim stood, startled and shaken, his body curling against the cool touch of the shadows. In his ear, they whispered. And around him, they morphed. The sun was not in the sky, and the ground was a mesh of shadow and dirt and dust. It was not a place for the living. It was a place for the forgotten, the abandoned, the dark, and the silent. It was a place for broken things. Things swallowed by the dark, and torn apart by the light.

But not Tim. Tim was alive. And he set forward again, jumping and running and fighting. The air tasted dry, and there was no wind to kick him into motion. It was merely him, and the world, and the shadow. Oh, the shadows… they chased him. It was alarming, how desperate they seemed to be to get a hold of him. And he panicked, and fought them, and turned them into nothing but wisp and ash and a flutter in the windless air.

Tim clambered onto a rocking mechanism, its frame cold as metal, kissed by ice and death. Tim stood for a moment, relishing in the soft swing of motion, and he closed his eyes. The hush called to him. The fog, the darkness, the gentle thrum of light… was it all so bad, after all?

He heard the laughter again. It was vibrating inside his ear, and Tim blinked, pressing his fingers to his communicator. "Hello?" he asked tentatively. His voice resounded. It was a trickle in the silence, a burst of life in a dimension that thrived on dead things and dark things and the cast offs of bright things.

"_Hello_?" echoed the laughing voice. "_Hello_?"

Tim didn't recognize the voice. He stood, the mechanical platform sighing as it creaked, shadows slithering across its cracked and screaming gears. The world was a quiet place. There was nothing for Tim to hear but the sound of his own breathing, his own heartbeat, and the whispers. The shushing, the murmuring, the soft cries. And Tim found himself rocking back and forth.

"Who is this?" he asked, his distrust seeping into his tone and cutting sharply.

"_Robin_," the voice replied, still sounding alight with joy. Confusion had settled there, though, and it hummed inside Tim's ear. "_Who's this_?"

Tim was bewildered. What sort of trick was this, now? The voice wasn't his, Tim was certain of it. "Robin," Tim repeated. "Right. Okay, I can play along. So, Robin, where are you, exactly?"

"_None of your business_!" snapped the voice in Tim's ear. It startled him how fast the boy's mood flipped. "_Wait, I'm sorry, that was mean, I don't know why I said that_."

"Um…"

Something whistled, like a breeze rushing through the shadowy plane, but there was no wind, and thus it set Tim on edge. He felt a swell of panic, and he spun around, feeling the familiar burst of cool energy as shadows breathed as they formed. His staff was at hand, read to smack the dark beast into the cavern below, deep down into the abyss where it had come— but Tim faltered, his staff hovering at the neck of a boy.

He was Tim's height. Maybe a little taller, with a broader build and a more charismatic air. Tim felt drawn to him just by the way he held himself, as if the boy could take on the world, and win without an effort. He wore a familiar red tunic, fitted close to his chest and lining his abdomen, and there was a bright yellow R emblazoned on his left breast, so bold that it stung Tim's eyes. One gloved hand had darted out, grasping the staff before it had a chance to strike, and Tim could see the red accenting along the fingers, trimming his hands and wrists.

"Oh," Tim breathed, feeling lightheaded at the sight of Jason Todd, in the almost-flesh. "I should have known it was you."

"Huh?" Jason cocked his head, his brow furrowing. He looked Tim up and down incredulously. "What's going on? Where…"

"You're not real," Tim told him. Jason looked at him, and his eyes narrowed. "You're dead. You've been dead a long time. Now you're just a figment of my imagination."

Jason stood for a moment looking stunned. His fingers tightened around the bo staff. "No," he said quietly. "You're wrong. I'm not dead."

"You are."

"Shut up!"

There was a chilly silence as they stared each other down, Jason Todd with a glower so intense that it crackled in the air— Tim could hear it, hear the sound of his panic as it built up, rushing and running, the sound of ticking lilting in the empty cavern of this worlds dark and light hues. It was intense and frustrating, like a line that could not run straight, or a circle bent into breaking its perpetual scheme. It was all unnatural. But, after all, what was not unnatural in this world?

"You're not real," Tim repeated. He had to. He was beginning to doubt himself. "You're just a shadow. An imprint of my fear. I get that now. You're an illusion, Jason."

Jason's entire body went taut as the tension struck. His body wavered, soft and flickering like a faulty old television screen, and the mask that shielded his eyes melted into smoke, fluttering into the air and dispersing. Tim had to take at step back, the mechanism below his feet shuddering, gears hissing and spitting. Jason's eyes were so big and hurt, it reminded Tim of his father's. But they looked haunted too, dead and sad and pleading. Jason was more aware than Tim's father— the shadow pretending to be Tim's father— had been. He looked desperate for kind words, for a savior, for relief.

"You don't know anything," Jason hissed, his voice shuddering in the vacuous space. His eyes were glistening with unshed tears. "You couldn't! Everyone keeps shielding you from the bad things, thinking it will help you, but it won't! You'll just end up broken in the end."

Tim jerked at his bo staff, but Jason was holding it too tight. Jason continued, his eyes leaking black tears, and they drifted upward, blobs of shadow and smoke and bursting like bubbles— soft cries of pain echoed after every _plop-plop-plop_. And a peal of shrill, manic laughter would follow. Tim had to take slow and steady breaths to keep himself from screaming out in frustration.

"You think you're better than I was," Jason said, his voice breaking pitifully. He had the appearance of the fourteen-year-old who had perished two years previous, but he had the voice of a very small child. "You think you won't make the same mistakes I did, because you're smarter, better, calmer— but you're not, not really. You're just a kid, and you're not any better than I was. You still think too much about pleasing others, and that'll be what pulls you down."

"I'm not better," Tim breathed. He looked at Jason, whose face was now beaten and bloody, his body trembling. "I could never be better than you. But… you're still dead, and I'm still here."

Tim wrenched his bo staff free and smacked Jason in the chest. The boy stumbled back, eyes wide and alarmed and he screamed, his footing lost against the mechanical platform, and he spiraled back, reaching desperately for Tim's arm. And he caught it. Tim lurched forward at the last moment, and the boy's body slammed hard against the edge of the lift. The meaty sound of his body smacking into the moving gears made Tim sick, and he could see his legs flailing in midair, the abyss below whispering softly. _Let go, let go, let go_…

"Please," Jason rasped, his body twisting helplessly. He looked up, but he was already melting, a shadow digging into Tim's arms, sliding across his chest. Jason's body was disintegrating already, but he looked so scared, so helpless, Tim couldn't help but feel his body begin to quake with guilt. "Please, I don't— I don't wanna go, not again, please!"

"I'm sorry," Tim croaked, his throat constricting as Jason's youthful face contorted in pain and confusion and betrayal. His arm broke, bursting into a slither of darkness, and Tim watched as his body bent, spinning and breaking backwards as it spiraled into the chasm below. Tim's arm was still extended when he saw Jason Todd's body disappear altogether.

Tim sunk to his knees, shadows whirling all around him. _This place is going to kill me_, Tim thought, hugging his bo staff closely to his chest. It was all an illusion, but the illusions hurt. Tim knew he had to be strong if he wanted to get out of the shadow dimension, but it was hard when everything was tearing at him from all sides, and he had no one to turn to.

"Nightwing," Tim called, his voice breathy and short. "Please answer. Please help me."

There was only a deafening silence to fill the ever-growing hole inside Tim's heart.

He decided to keep going. He had nowhere to go if not forward, right? The dimension was a wavering sheet of bright and dim, and whenever he took a step the ground would release a gentle little gasp, as if it was alive. Maybe it was. Tim wondered about the world, with its shadowy trees and mechanical bridges and platforms and twisted life—

_Maybe it was populated once_, Tim thought, spinning his staff in hand, sending a shadow beast flying into the air. Tim tensed, and then he leapt, the air carrying him somehow, and he smacked the beast again and again and again, watching its dark body flail and jerk with every precise blow. When Tim landed delicately back to the soft, dusted ground, the shadow burst into a shower of wisps above him. The darkness tickled Tim's cheeks and neck, breathing down his cape and sobbing softly in his ear.

Tim tried not to think about it. If there had once been life here, then what were the shadow beasts? They were the stuff of nightmares, sure— but perhaps… if this world had been consumed by magic, perhaps its inhabitants had be disfigured and warped as well. That made him feel awful. The guilt was gnawing at him, clawing at his innards, and he didn't know how to deal with it. He had no chance of actually testing his theory.

The whispers began following him. Whenever he fought, the whispers would get louder, a cacophony of shrill words that made no sense to him. He had to keep at it, though, or else… well, what would the shadows do to him if he stopped destroying them? He didn't know. But they attacked him, so he had no choice but to attack back. It was all a blur of white and black, streaks of light and dark, and Tim was a whir of yellow and red and black. He had no choice. He would find Klarion, and he would get out.

_Go_, whispered the shadows. _Run, go, help— Tim? Tim! Stay. Please. Help?_

Tim gritted his teeth, ducking as the shadows unfurled above him, twisting and morphing until they formed dark, scaly beasts. Long, leathery wings stretched far above him, and he gasped as the winged beasts collided with his back, forcing him to stumble forward. Its talons dragged across his shoulder blades, and it _stung_. Tim regained his balance and spun on his toes, whipping his staff upwards. The creature screeched as it was smacked back, its wings beating against the thick air.

It was a lizard-like thing, about the length of his arm with a slender body and a angular head. It twitched and snorted, its scales rippling as light gleamed against the shadow. Tim's back ached, and he hunched over defensively as it swooped down its wings broadening and its neck craning. Tim moved to block it, but then its mouth opened, yawning wide, little black teeth glistening— and a white burst of flame respired from its gaping jaws, smacking him full force, the fire licking at his face and arms and chest, burning and lashing out furiously.

Tim was forced onto his back, stunned and flailing to put the fire out. A shadow dragon. It was a _shadow dragon_!

"This place just keeps getting trippier and trippier," Tim murmured to himself, rolling onto his stomach, flicking an exploding birdarang behind him. He leapt to his feet soon after, building momentum and launching himself up, catching a grating shadow platform. It arched, shaking slowly, but it stayed upright as he flipped himself onto his feet.

There were mists now, floating all around him, and the shadows pawed at his cape and scratched at his skin. He heard gasping, panting, and he peered over the ledge, beating off the clingy tendrils. The fog parted for him, and he saw a girl struggling a few feet below, shadows snaking up and down her body, latching around her waist and slithering against her arms and legs. Her cape was tattered, torn apart by the thorny appendages of the shadow world. Her cowl had been thrown back, and he could see her face, half-determined and half-terrified, and the more she struggled the more the wisps of darkness entangled her.

"Batgirl?" Tim gasped. Had she come for him? A burst of hope and horror shot through his chest, twisting and mingling and shuddering. He jumped to his feet, his fingers sliding to his utility belt— but then the beast grabbed him from behind, catching on his cape and dragging him upward. His feet left the ground, and he cried out, his stomach lurching as he dropped the birdarang, his cape choking him as he struggled. He could see Barbara's thrashing body from this height, and she was looking up at him with big eyes.

"Tim…" she choked, her voice stifled by the burst of dark matter that spurt from her lips as the spiraling tendrils clawed into her chest, protruding from her back and letting blood and smoke and darkness splash into the air.

"_Barbara_!" Tim shrieked, something hitting him hard, like a weight to his chest, and he screamed and kicked as he watched the shadows grip Barbara Gordon's limbs and tear her apart— he could see the thin filaments of darkness that clung to her as her body was ripped to shreds and set aflame by the mist and the darkness and the shadow beasts.

_Wasn't real_, Tim told himself, stabbing at the dragon that had caught him so viciously that its slick, dark blood stained his lips and hands and torso. He kept stabbing until it fell apart into the shadows, and he curled up, gasping, his insides flipping and churning at the horrible sight of seeing Barbara— no, it wasn't her, it was just a _shadow_, it was—

"Impressive," a grating voice laughed from behind him. Tim was on his knees, leaning over the chasm where Barbara had been minutes— hours?— before. Tim didn't face Klarion. He was too tired.

"That wasn't real," Tim said, his voice dead.

"Are you sure about that?" Klarion asked. Tim could feel him very close, his slender body too fleshy to be shadow— Tim had a birdarang in hand… if he could do it, maybe then Tim would be…

"I know the difference between illusion and reality," Tim said firmly. He stood, albeit shakily, and he turned to face the Witch Boy, scooping up his abandoned bo staff. "You're not going to trick me, Klarion. I won't fall for it."

"You did, though," smirked the gray-faced demon. He pressed his long, spindly fingers to his chest, jerking his chin up and shrieked scornfully, "_Barbara_!"

Tim took a deep breath. He could do this. There was a lot Tim knew, and there was a lot he thought he could handle, but… even knowing that he was being tricked and manipulated, it was hard to stomach the image of Barbara's limbs being ripped from their sockets, and blood—

"Your games are getting boring, Klarion," Tim said, his voice growing easy despite the plaguing disgust and terror that clung to him. "Why don't we just finish this?"

"Hmm," Klarion pursed his lips, watching Tim take a step forward. And the boy laughed, jumping into the air. "Don't wanna!"

Tim watched him disappear again, and he sighed, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. It wasn't fair. Dick could always control his emotions when he was Nightwing, even when horrible things happened— once when a robber had been gunned down in front of them, Tim had been close to hysterics— it had been pretty early in his career as Robin— but Dick had kept his cool so well. Tim was jealous. He couldn't contain his emotions like that, not yet, and… and Barbara…

He threw up right there. He just doubled over, dropping his bo staff and clutching his stomach, feeling the vomit spurt from his lips as his stomach kept churning. He was sick and tired and aching. And all Tim wanted was to go home. His throat burned, raw and painful, and he dropped to his hands and knees, his back arching as he wretched.

The illusions were getting worse. Tim's state of mind was getting worse as well. After all, there was only so much horror a boy could take. He wasn't strong like Dick, or Bruce. He just had trouble sorting out the emotions and the self-control. He wasn't as strong as he'd like to be. Wasn't that funny?

When his stomach settled, Tim sat against a dark, distorted tree, his body hunched over as he let the soft trill and lull of the shadow world caress him. Tim closed his eyes, and he wondered how long he had been there. Surely it could not have been more than a day, but… dimensions worked oddly, didn't they? Maybe it had been a week. A month. A year, or…

_They're looking for me_, Tim thought, letting his body melt into the tree. "My family will come," Tim murmured to the shadows. They whispered softly, chattering excitedly to each other. "Just wait."

"That's the spirit, sir," a soft, accented voice said. Tim sighed, and he looked up, his eyes landing on Alfred's old, amiable face. The shadows around them were wavering again, tittering and muttering. _Tim, Tim, kill him too, kill him like you killed the rest!_

"Please go away, Alfred," Tim mumbled, pulling his staff closer to his side.

Alfred watched him, and Tim could feel his eyes, the worried gaze so painfully familiar. "Master Timothy, are you…?" The old butler's hand came close, brushing against Tim's shoulder. Tim squeezed his eyes shut. And then he lashed out.

Taking down Alfred was so _easy_. And yet it was harder than all the others— harder because Tim was aware of it, aware that he could be wrong, and he did it anyway. He bit back sobs as he smacked Alfred in the stomach, not allowing him to gain balance and striking him hard again, listening to his jaw crack as his head snapped back. Tim spun hitting Alfred again and again, a little moan of despair escaping his own lips as he beat away his fears, and watched them fall and twist and twitch, morphing before his eyes.

The beast looked at him, half-Alfred and half-shadow, and Tim jumped down, landing at its feet with a certain kind of grace. The shadows exhaled all around him. They laughed, and they danced. The beast cried, a sob escaping its deformed lips, and it writhed as it tried to get back on its feet.

"Master Tim…?" gurgled the beast. Tim gripped his bo staff with numb fingers. And he struck the beast down with one final blow.

It screamed as it broke apart, its body melting back into the ground, flecks of shadow releasing into the ivory sky. Tim took a step back, and he breathed in and out, in and out, trying to keep himself from breaking down. He knew that it wasn't real— or at least he hoped it wasn't. He couldn't be sure anymore.

The longer he went on, the harder it was to tell what was an illusion and what was… well, was there such a thing as reality in this warped world of shadows? The perpetual dusk was disturbing, but even so Tim couldn't deny that there was some odd, eerily beautiful quality about this world. It felt archaic, ghostly, but that made it something else entirely. A world of ghosts and shadow. A world of illusion and fear.

He hated it, but admired it. It was hard to really understand, but it was true. As he trekked, he saw spires made of glass, light sailing through the diamond planes, shattering itself into a million white rays across the darkened world. He saw crawling trees, ebony black and twisted along the remains of a broken platform, gutting the gears with long, malformed arms. The inky dark limbs clung desperately to the battered, bent metal, and Tim crawled atop it, using the knots in the misshapen tree to steady himself.

He reached out, the platform sitting at a slant. There were shards jutting out from the worn metal, and the tree and maneuvered around the obstacles when growing. Tim sliced his hand open on one, and he swore and gasped, his body slipping against the platform. His fingers snagged on one bedraggled branch, and he slammed back against the metalwork, his heart drumming in his chest, and blood smearing across the pale gray frame. The metal was the color of bone. It seemed only suiting for something so dead.

"Oh, god," he mumbled, reaching the spire. There were shadows licking up and along its glistening panes of glass. It hissed and spat at Tim, as if it was possessed by something feral. Tim rubbed his face, but all he got was a throbbing hand and a smear of blood across his nose and cheek. He didn't know what to do. Everything seemed to be piling against him, and the very moment he wasn't being attacked, the world seemed to want nothing more than to see him swallowed by shadow and dust.

He pressed his hand to his communicator, his breathing heavy. He listened to static, and it was the only sound that he could hear. Everything else was the mutter of shadows, too alive and too sentient. He was scared of himself, and scared of the world. The static thrummed in his ear and in his heart.

"Help," he breathed, his mouth dry. "Oh, god… help…"

Atop the spire, a shadow flickered. The world breathed a sigh, and the light from the glass glimmered gently as it was snuffed out. Tim looked up, and felt as though he was going to scream. The shadow shifted, and Tim spun, flinging himself down the slanted platform, the world rushing up to greet him. His body slammed against the warped branches of the shadowy tree, and he screamed, the limbs shattering into a thousand pieces and floating away. Tim crumpled to the ground, his body sinking into the squishy earth. He quickly rolled away, flinging explosive discs into the air.

They caught the shadowy wisp of Batman's cape, burrowing itself in his chest, in his leg, and the blast cracked against the softness of the world. Batman blew into a million brilliant, fluttering tendrils, and reformed on his feet, towering over Tim with the height of a monster. He struggled to his feet, his cape fluttering as he flipped back, jerking far from Batman's flashing leg.

"Get back," Tim gasped, flicking out his bo staff. Batman kept coming, a blur in the white, and flutter in a windless sky, and Tim fell, breathing in shadow and dust and ash. He smacked Batman in the chest when he leaned over, grasping Tim by the cape, but the staff phased right through skin and Kevlar. Tim's legs flailed pitifully, and he felt weightless, like a child as he squirmed. "Stay away from me!"

"You called for help." Batman's gruff voice sliced through the silence, stabbing Tim's heart. "I'm here. Come on, we're going home."

"Get off me!" Tim kicked and squirmed, his foot smashing into Batman's face. Tim fell again, his body crashing to the ground. The shadows rasped, clinging to his arms and legs, and he kicked them off, flinging himself to his feet and swinging his staff at Batman's head. This time the staff hit home, and Batman stumbled, grunting as his footing was lost. Tim went on, adrenaline rushing through him, the only nourishment he had, and he smacked Batman over and over, careful, precise strikes that sent him stumbling back.

_It's not Bruce_, Tim thought, tears in his eyes. _It's not, it's not, it's not_!

Tim knew it to be true. How else could he be beating Batman so relentlessly?

"Robin," Batman barked, his back bumping against the metal spring of the skeletal platform, cogs and gears and metal rigs jutting from the mechanical carcass. "What are you doing?"

"I told you to stay away from me!" Tim cried, his voice pitiful and high and thin. The world whistled in response, shadows moving and breaking and shrieking. "So stay away! Go back to wherever the hell you came from!" Tim was done indulging Klarion's monsters.

Batman's mouth was a thin, hard line.

"Do you honestly think you can beat me?" His voice was as dark and empty as the world around them. Tim breathed a shuddering breath, and all the shadows broke around him, moving like ice through the air as they wavered and gasped, turning to dust, to air, to light, to dark, to night, to dawn, to dusk—

Tim jerked forward, his bo staff colliding with the gears and cogs and springs and metal rigs of the platform's great metal mast. It wedged itself between the teeth of a large gray gear, just beside Batman's head. He watched him with hard, glowering eyes.

"You missed," he hissed, disappointment almost dripping in his tone. Tim could feel himself shaking.

He straightened, and drove the staff deeper, watching the platform come alive with a flash of lightning, the shadows around Tim screeching as the electricity pulsed and raked across the metal skeleton. It tore through Batman's body, and Tim watched, horrified as the light ripped Bruce Wayne into nothing but a shrieking, hissing wisp of darkness. The remains of the shadow burst upward, a cloud of smoke dispersing fast, wisps and murmurs and ash blowing back into Tim's face.

Tim pulled back, yanking his staff free from the platform with a sharp gasp. He felt sick, and the air tasted like burnt fabric. He dropped his bo staff then, dropping to his hands and knees and gasping, his fingers burrowing into the soft, mossy ground. His head was buzzing from the sound of electricity, from Bruce's fading screams. He was crying, he realized, the grayscale earth turning black with moisture. Droplets fell in tiny patters.

The world whooshed. His heart was gone, broken in half and fading fast, and he shook, biting his lip hard as the shadows danced around him. The machine that had killed the shadow beast gave a shrill, monstrous scream as it whirred into life. Tim jumped back skittering away from it with wide eyes. He clamped his hand over his mouth to muffle a sob, and he tasted his own blood, lapping against his tongue in a sharp metallic tang.

"Awww!" Klarion laughed, his voice a rasp and a cough and a shrill little shriek. "He's _crying_! Teekl, look! Robin's just a little baby after all!"

Tim's eyes were still damp as he snarled up at Klarion, "Fight me! You little monster, _fight_ me!"

The beastling cackled, and more tears streamed down Tim's cheeks. Teekl mewed, and hissed, and the shadows gurgled in response, leaping to life and dying just the same. Tim was dizzy from it. The sunless sky wavered, dark and then light, and Tim felt himself wavering, his entire body flickering in and out of existence at the speed of light. Shadows congealed around him, clinging hopelessly to his sides, and they cried into his shoulder, begging, pleading, kissing his neck and lips, tugging at his cape.

"Enough," he croaked dazedly, shadows on his tongue, dancing their crazed, monstrous dance. "Enough!"

"Ah ah ah!" sang Klarion. Tim reached for his staff, but all he could feel was the swish and flutter of shadows. "Silly Robin! There is no _enough_! Only more, more, more, more!"

He was gone then, Tim could sense it. A chill shot through him, and the world gave a splutter, and a sigh, spitting darkness. Shadow beasts crowded Tim, morphing into corporeal being. Tim's breathing was short, and he gasped and gasped and gasped for air. He reached, his arm stretching, and his fingers brushed his staff. It felt icy, and it burnt his skin. The shadow beasts came closer, lurching and boneless, shapes of darkness blurring around him.

The staff slipped into his hand, and he rolled onto his feet, struggling with the swiping arms of the long, hissing shadows. He smacked one once, twice, hitting it again and watching it sail away. Then he hit another. And another. He was overwhelmed, his blood pumping, and he was screaming in his head. He couldn't fend them all off. He couldn't even think properly. Was he going insane?

Tim felt the world tremble. And the shadows melted, falling into the ground as if they were made of water, dropping into black puddles and breaking apart into light and dark and nothing. Tim stood, breath heaving, and he swayed, the trees and mechanics and gnarled gears and sharp limbs, they all screamed at him.

The world rumbled.

It whooshed and whistled and roared.

And the sky cracked open.

Out of it poured a thousand shadows, and they all shattered, breaking themselves on spindly branches and rusted, skeletal mechanical bridges and platforms, sheering against gears and cogs and crags and trees. The world was stone, onyx and marble, and it shuddered.

Tim stumbled, the world seeming to fall apart, stabilize, then crumble again. He was spinning, and the shadows screamed, light streaming and flowing and cascading and dispersing. He screamed too, screamed because the world was on its last leg, and he was in the middle of a cataclysm. He could feel the earth grow soft and then fracture beneath his feet.

It all stopped with a short gasp. The world stuttered, as if confused, as if waking from a nightmare. It quieted, and breathed, and went lip. The world was still as stone— onyx skies and marble earths, onyx metal skeletons and marble trees. Tim stood, his tears drying on his cheeks, and he blinked upward. He felt unsteady on his feet.

Someone cried for him.

"Robin!"

Tim felt his weary heart grow wearier. He slumped, gripping his staff so tightly his hand began to bleed some more. The shadows hissed and spat, skittering away, and he wished he could do the same. He was tired. He could become a shadow too, perhaps. Would that be so bad? He was world-worn and heartless and dead, perhaps. This world had not been kind to him.

"Robin!"

He turned, and there, jumping from a floating, creaking black platform, was Nightwing. His face was stark white in the dark sky, and he fell with the grace of an angel, his body wading against the windless air. His feet touched the soft, mossy white earth, and it was so delicate Tim wanted to scream. He sighed.

"Are you okay?" Nightwing sounded worried. He would. "What happened?"

"Go away," Tim mumbled, turning away.

"What…?" Nightwing caught him by the shoulder, and Tim smacked him with his staff, watching him stagger back.

"Go away!" Tim shouted, pointing at him with his staff. "I'm sick of this! Klarion! Do you hear me? I'm sick of your stupid games!"

"Tim…" Nightwing's eyes were wide. "Wow, hold on now… we don't have a lot of time. It's taking Zee way too much power just to hold that portal open."

"Not listening," Tim breathed. He swung, and Nightwing ducked, slipping beside Tim and catching his arm. He disarmed Tim with ease, and so Tim smacked him across the face, his nails raking Nightwing's cheek. He drew blood, but he didn't care. Why should he? His father had bled. Jason had bled. Barbara had bled. Alfred had bled.

Nightwing pinned Tim down, and when Tim kicked, he grabbed something from his utility belt and jammed it into Tim's arm. Tim was shrieking by then, spitting curses, screaming wordlessly. He was half crazed, half mad, half scared to death. Tim punched and flailed, smacking Nightwing's chest, waiting for him to become the sly, wispy shadow he was. To slice Tim open with its arms, and splash the grayscale world with flecks of red.

But as Tim went limp, Nightwing held him. He held him so tightly, Tim couldn't breathe. He was dizzy and sore by the time he stopped screaming. And Nightwing picked him up with ease, scooping him into his arms, and he murmured to him softly.

"Don't worry, Tim. We're going home."

* * *

When he woke up, he was in the cave infirmary. He laid there, and he thought about screaming. It had to be another illusion, right? A trick Klarion had conjured up to break him. Tim couldn't fall for it!

But he did. The moment he saw Barbara with Dick, both asleep on folding chairs at Tim's bedside, Tim couldn't help but believe he was home. Tim pushed back his blanket and crawled to the edge of his bed. He reached out, and he touched Barbara's face. It felt warm. Alive. He had to smile.

She awoke without moving a muscle. Her eyes merely slid open, and she stared at him blankly, puzzled, her eyebrows slowly knitting together. Tim pulled back, feeling embarrassed. "Tim…?" she whispered, leaning forward. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Tim said, smiling at her. "Nothing's wrong. I…" He looked at Dick, who jolted awake at the sound of Tim's voice. "I'm… home, right?"

"Duh," Dick said, smiling gently. Tim stared at him, and he felt the need to fling his arms around Dick's neck and thank him over and over again. "Tim. What… what happened in there?"

Tim's smile slid away. The world seemed to grow colder.

He took a deep breath, eyes cast downward. "Nothing," he said, shrugging. "Klarion made me… see things. People. That weren't there. Dead people." Dick's eyes flashed with understanding. "Alive people. I didn't… know it was you. Really you." Tears of shame stung his eyes. "I'm so sorry, Dick, I should have—"

"Shh," Dick murmured, pulling Tim to his chest. "No. Don't apologize." Tim found himself cry, and that made him feel even more ashamed. "It's over."

"It's over," Tim repeated, his voice thick. He looked at Barbara, and she smiled, wrapping her arms around them both. She rested her chin against Tim's hair. "It's over…"

* * *

_I got a little tired near the end. Can you tell?_

_The last chunk of this is unedited, so I have to apologize for that. This has actually been a few months in the making. I sort of forgot about it until today, and wanted to get it done._

_So here it is! Inspired by the Shadow Mission game, I thought I'd write Tim's experiences with the shadow realm... with my own grotesque take on it, of course._


End file.
